Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(41)

“Hey, Gomez, how’s it going?”

Hector eyed him suspiciously. “Okay, I guess. And you?”

“Real good.” Mahoney nodded. “Real good.”

In no mood for small talk, Hector asked, “So what brings you over here?”

“Search for a missing person. Run-of-the-mill stuff, nothing exciting.”

“You’re not working the Klaussner robbery?”

“Nah, that’s one you’re gonna have to handle on your own.”

Still suspicious, Gomez asked, “This missing person you’re looking for wouldn’t be a teenage boy, would it?”

“Nope. A woman, probably mid-forties.”

Gomez breathed a sigh of relief. There was a sense of satisfaction in knowing he’d bested Mahoney on this one, and Hector couldn’t help but brag. “I’ve got the lead on the Klaussner job. Right now it’s attempted murder, but if Klaussner dies—”

“So you got the guy?”

“We got one, but it looks like it was a team. Klaussner shot one; the other one got away.” Gomez hesitated for a moment then added, “We’re running the prints now, so we’ll get him.”

“Sounds like you’ve got this pretty well wrapped up.”

“Yeah,” Gomez boasted. He was going to add something about not needing Mahoney’s help but was interrupted by Officer Cunningham.

“Hey, Gomez,” Cunningham called out, “the ID on those prints you’ve been waiting for is on your desk.”

When Gomez turned and walked back toward his desk, Mahoney trailed along. He knew men like Gomez had a hungry ego, one that needed to be fed. “Impressive work,” he said. “Us Northampton boys could learn a few things from you.”

Gomez smiled. “Yeah, you could.” He was tempted to remind Mahoney of the erroneous assumptions made on the Doyle case, but given this newfound-respect for his work Hector decided to let that dog stay dead.

With Mahoney looking over his shoulder, Gomez picked up the lab report. They had a positive match. The prints belonged to a small-time crook out of Pittsburgh. “Hurt McAdams, armed robbery,” Gomez said. “Spent seven years in Camp Hill, released five days ago.”

“Is this the guy Klaussner shot?”

Gomez shook his head. “No ID on that one yet. The kid is faking amnesia, but once he knows we’ve got his partner he’ll open up.”

“Impressive,” Mahoney repeated.

“Just good detective work.” Gomez gave a grin of satisfaction. When he turned to pull on his jacket he didn’t notice Mahoney eyeballing the open file on his desk.





Miami Beach



Minutes after Hurt McAdams stepped off the bus wearing his leather jacket, a river of sweat rolled down his face and his shirt became plastered to his skin. He stuck his hand in the jacket pocket and rubbed his fingers across the cool metal of the gun. Knowing it was there made him feel good; it was comforting.

Inside the Union Street Terminal, Hurt pushed through the crowd until he found a telephone booth. He pulled the phone book from the rack and began searching. “McAdams, McAdams,” he mumbled as he traced his finger down the listings. Plenty of McAdams, but not one George. Hurt slammed the book shut. Daddy George was here, Hurt could feel it in his bones. He was here but didn’t want to be found.

Hurt pushed back through the crowd and into the street. The sun was hot, so hot he knew that if he stood there long enough it would burn a hole in his head. Miami was a city, and he’d expected it would be more like…well, like Pittsburgh. It wasn’t. In Pittsburgh the buildings were grey, the streets were grey, even the sky was grey most of the time. He could blend in, get lost, go unnoticed. Here people looked at him strangely. Everything was a glary white and pink, colors so bright it gave him a headache. He tried lifting his eyes, but the sky above wasn’t the sky he knew. It was a garish blue with a sun so fierce he had to look away. He ducked into a drugstore and approached the clerk.

“You got sunglasses?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said and waggled a finger toward the far side of the store. “There’s a whole rack, right behind the suntan lotion.”

Without bothering to thank her, Hurt turned and walked in that direction. He picked the darkest pair he could find and returned to the counter.

“Dollar forty-nine,” the clerk said.

Hurt pulled two dollar bills from his pocket and laid them on the counter.

The girl punched $1.49 into the register. “New in town?”

Hurt didn’t answer. Her words seemed little more than buzzing in his ear. He had one thought and one thought only: find Daddy George.

When the clerk handed Hurt his change, she smiled. “Ain’t that jacket kinda hot?” she asked laughingly.

Hurt slipped the change into his pocket, then looked at her with an icy cold glare. Stupid girl, he thought. A stupid girl doesn’t deserve to live. He felt for the gun, then turned and walked out of the store. He should have stolen the sunglasses; that’s what he should have done. You steal something, you don’t have to talk to stupid girls. He had no time now; maybe later.

Hurt stood outside the drugstore with sweat rolling down his face and splatting onto his jacket. He tried to think of where Daddy George might hide, but everything here was different; strange and unfamiliar. Where were the row-house neighborhoods? Where were the dark gin mills? He turned and walked south on Second Street. On the corner of Flagler he passed a newsstand and a headline grabbed hold of him.